


Watching

by Steamshovelmama



Category: Primeval
Genre: F/F, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6978214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamshovelmama/pseuds/Steamshovelmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Stephen and Helen come about?</p>
<p>Originally written as comment porn for a voyeurism prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving some old fic

_Your faith was strong but you needed proof_

_you saw her bathing on the roof_

_her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you_

The village was barely worth the name; just a handful of adobe buildings baked white by the sun. No paved roads, only one building with running water, the latrine a hole in the ground with a bucket of sand next to it.

 

On the other hand, compared to three weeks in a two man tent that was only really large enough for one, water from the river that had to be chlorinated, no latrine at all and a air humidity level of 100%, this hamlet seemed pretty damned comfortable.

 

Stephen felt clean for the first time in three weeks. They had all washed whilst in the field but the massive humidity of the rainforest had made it a ceremonial gesture only. The higher altitude air was arid, and he was enjoying the feeling of dry clothes on dry skin – skin that after his thorough scrub and shave felt peeled and sensitive.

 

He decided to take a walk around the edge of the cluster of buildings. There was a flattened track of baked and dusty earth that he followed and his soft sandals felt pleasant after three weeks in boots. The air would help clear up the foot-rot that he, like all the rest, was suffering from. The claims on the tins of antifungal powder had turned out to be somewhat exaggerated.

 

As he followed the adobe walls round he saw a trickle of water running down the track. There were suds floating in it. He rounded a corner and came upon a wooden gate standing ajar. Without thinking he glanced into courtyard it protected. He stopped dead.

 

A naked woman stood in the centre of the sandy floor her arms raised as she poured a jug of water over her. Her body was covered in a white frosting of foam. As the water sluiced down her torso it revealed ample breasts, a toned, almost flat belly and a triangle of dark hair that curled tight against her body.

 

He knew he should hurriedly move on, pretend he hadn’t seen anything, be a gentleman but… he had been fascinated by Helen Cutter ever since he had met her. It was wrong. She was another man’s wife – even if that man seemed to lack appreciation of his good fortune; she was his supervisor and that was also a position where she was absolutely forbidden to him.

 

It didn’t matter. He was hopelessly intrigued by her. By her ruthless intelligence, her commanding presence, her wicked sense of humour, her contradictory personality and, not least, her lush body and intense sexual charisma.

 

He had caught glimpses of her body before. She wasn’t modest or coy and on a trip like this privacy was almost non-existent. To his shame he found himself mentally storing up the images and replaying them for his satisfaction during the rare few minutes of privacy when his tent mate was snoring or off washing.

 

That she wore nothing but a halter top was something he could cope with, even if she quite plainly wore no bra and the material was so thin he could see every contour. He had spent plenty of time without a shirt and he wasn’t prudish enough to believe she should cover up uncomfortably just because it disturbed him. She would come out of the tent each morning and stretch in a bone-cracking manner, her back bent and her breasts thrust out so that the material pulled tight. As the day went on her halter would become saturated and cling to every fold in her skin

 

Doctor Cutter, blast him, didn’t seem to notice her. He was probably the only man on the expedition who didn’t. He and Helen shared a tent but you never heard any of the surreptitious noises of shifting or heavy breathing that occasionally issued from the tents of the other couples on the expedition. Most kept any activity as quiet as they could and the inmates of the closest tents discreetly didn’t mention it. Three weeks was a long time. Although he’d been on one trip with a couple who were obviously exhibitionists and that had been really uncomfortable. Until the expedition leader had taken on the embarrassing task of having a quiet word he’d stuck his Discman on loud for the first half hour each night and had been praying his supply of batteries lasted.

 

He’d never seen this much of Helen Cutter, though.

 

She stood; feet planted apart, her arms up as she raised a second jug of water to pour over herself. Her long dark hair was plastered to her head and shoulders, small tendrils adhering to the upper slopes of her breasts. Rivulets ran down her belly and thighs, carrying away the last suds. As he watched she turned to a pump in the corner of the yard and crouched slightly as she worked the handle and refilled the two earthenware jugs. He was close enough to see where the flesh on her belly creased as she bent and even the layer of goose bumps that had sprung up on her back.

 

She lifted the jugs clear of the pump, turning so that for a heart stopping moment he was sure she would see him, but her eyes swept past as she reached for a white bar of soap resting on a small ledge. Her back remained to him as she worked the soap between her hands. The curling ends of her hair dripped and droplets of water converged on her spine, travelling shakily down her back in a tiny stream before entering the cleft of her cheeks and, finally, running off the stray curls of dark hair that showed as she leant forward a little to replace the soap. She turned again and began methodically soaping her arms and breasts.

 

He was suddenly, shockingly, hard, cock resting against his belly like he was sixteen again, getting his first glimpse of the mysteries of female flesh. His face was hot. He wanted his tongue to trace the same path as the droplets. Eagerness and shame fought for control of his gaze.

 

Her hands passed over her shoulders to run a veil of suds over and around her pale breasts, her nipples standing hard in the cool air. Foam ran down her stomach and caught in the thick thatch of hair at joint of her thighs.

 

She ran a hand between her legs, massaging and he felt such a pulse of arousal that he hunched involuntarily and it was all he could do not to take himself in hand then and there.

 

She soaped her legs, the dark hair clear even against her tanned skin. He appreciated smooth legs and armpits as much as any man but there was something primal about her natural state and it excited him.

 

She raised the first jug of water and poured a clear film down her torso. Her wet skin was like polished rock, the patches of hair like moss growing in the damp crevices. She poured the second down her back, the water cascading off the roundness of her buttocks.

 

He wanted to cup that roundness in his hands, to smooth his hands over the curves, to feel the texture of the tightly curled hair, to taste her sweat and smell the heat of arousal. There was something feline, animal, about her unselfconscious nakedness that was at the same time vulnerable. He wondered how she would respond if he stood, fully clothed, in front of her nudity, protected and armoured against her, while she stood displayed for his gaze.

 

She moved out of his line of sight and it was as though Stephen awoke. Dry mouthed, he turned away, pulling his t-shirt down loosely to hide his diminishing erection. As quietly as he could he walked away cursing the new fuel his desire had been fed.

 

She was another man’s wife. She was not, and would never be, for him. Although he seemed unable to shut her out of his fantasies he knew nothing would ever come of it – and nor should it. Eventually this fire would burn itself out and he didn’t want to be left with humiliating memories that would torment him. He knew how to keep these feelings to himself where they could do no harm.

 

………………………………………………

Helen watched the gate out of the corner of her eye. She tried to control her body’s reactions but her breathing was fast and she felt like every nerve in her skin was alight. She looked round to catch her husband’s eye as he squatted in the corner, back propped against the wall.

 

“So who were you tormenting?” He enquired casually His eyes ran over her body taking in all the signs of arousal familiar after six years of marriage.

 

She debated denying it but Nick knew her too well. “Stephen Hart,” she said, matching his off hand tone. His shout of laughter surprised her.

 

“Hart? Aw, Helen, he’s just a boy. Leave him alone.”

 

She smiled. “I didn’t make him look.”

 

He made a dismissive noise. “But you wanted him to look.”

 

“I enjoyed him looking.” She threw Nick a challenging look. “It’s been a while.”

 

He glanced away. “Yeah. I know. Look, civilisation the day after tomorrow. We can lock ourselves in the hotel room for as long as you like.”

 

She moved to press her body against the length of his. “Why not now?”

 

He pulled away from her. “I’m not parading our love life in front of a bunch of kids half of whom have a crush on you and the other half who think anyone over thirty even thinking about sex is disgusting.”

 

She dressed silently, discontent bubbling through her. The coolness and control of Nick’s gaze contrasted sharply with the heat and vulnerability in Stephen Hart’s eyes.

 

She wondered about the possibilities she saw there.

_She tied you to her kitchen chair_

_She broke your throne and she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the alleluia._

_Alleluia – Leonard Cohen_


End file.
